There is rope, or a chord, that binds us all together.
I have 200 cases and yet with the holes in my pockets I shuffle past
Bums begging a smoke at the beginning of the month on London Bridge,
I look into the rushing water, and my bag grows light, so easy to see the papers flying,
Gulls settling on the waters. Alone at last, at the Fridge
I might have kissed a bonny boy; I did once, but if I am lying, fire
Burnt the silver roads into your heart. The drum beat slows and rests a breath
Great heart, weave your threads lightning quick or we are lost,
Bitter tears others may weep, yet silence shall ever treat you gently.
With fire of reason shall our liberties be restored, loving kindness at the last
May lead us to an old man in rags who once spoke wit and wisdom, a bag of tricks, fire in a chestnut.